It's the Beginning; So Much for Sentiment

But when we trudged uphill, noting

the sooty mass of snow, watching the chimneys

grow dark with twilight; there we were,

and the way was tedious. Time to procrastinate.

Here is a heap of fat: it sucks

its cigar, makes plans; it even contemplates.

Your neurosis, an unbelievable pressure,

can stand in itself like a cow.

In the face of the loved friend

you see a door, his own loneliness;

beyond, the meadow and trees.

The secular root of the bad dream

was always ourselves, most difficult.

So there we were, and it was the beginning,

chewing our useless intentions.

Out of them came soft, metallic gowns.

It was a kind of progress: we slept,

dreamless, cold and protected.

Oh but daily we were all hot with lamentations!

Slowly they grew into the wrong mountain:

a strategy, destroy it!

Depend on the friend's face, his good intent,

his willingness to allow some deception.

An unbelievable pressure is lean and hungry.

Starve it, love it, put your head into it,

it is the new year, build into it

instruments of instruction which will terminate.

Is it the right beginning? We march into it;

it is open all around like a meadow;

we come naked, sweet as tea, secular, joyless, intent.